


there's a rhyme and reason to the wild outdoors

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 16:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10494495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: In which Jasper backs out of a camping trip, so Bellamy brings Clarke and Monty gets stuck sharing a tent with Miller. This wouldn’t be a problem, except that it’s a lot harder to be chill and pretend you don’t have a crush on someone when you’re sleeping right next to them.





	

When Bellamy decides he wants to go on a “guy’s camping trip,” Monty doesn’t refuse. But that’s only because Jasper agrees on his behalf without telling him.

 

“A camping trip?” Monty whines when he hears the news, pelting Jasper with a noodle from his pad thai. “For the whole weekend? You can’t possibly think that sounds like fun.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Jasper agrees, casually peeling the noodle off his arm and setting it on his napkin. “But I’m weak, Monty. You know how important it is to me that Bellamy thinks I’m cool.”

 

“I know you’re weak, but I thought you were stronger than _this_.”

 

Jasper shrugs. “Turns out, nope.”

 

“Why does he need us for his guy’s weekend?” Monty grumbles. “Doesn’t he have Miller?”

 

“Miller’s coming too,” Jasper says, and Monty groans. Because he can’t turn down an excuse to spend an entire weekend with Bellamy’s surly (oh, and fucking _gorgeous_ ) roommate Miller. Now that Clarke and Bellamy are dating, he sees Miller way more often than he used to. But it’s mostly in a group setting and never for as long as Monty would like.

 

So Monty resigns himself to his fate: camping. A weekend away from his high-speed internet and coffee machine and wonderfully comfy couch to hang out in the woods and be cold and eat squirrels.

 

(Okay, so Monty’s never actually been camping before. But he’s pretty sure that’s the gist.)

 

Then the day before the trip, Jasper backs out.

 

“I got a gig, man!” Jasper explains when he gets home from work, halfway between excited and remorseful. “I’m sorry I can’t come tomorrow, but…”

 

He shrugs, grinning, and Monty can’t even feel bad. Jasper’s freelance photography side-business has been doing well, and Monty is in full support of anything that makes Jasper more joyful and less inclined to go full weeks without showering.

 

“Fine,” Monty grumbles, pretending to smack Jasper upside the head. “Make me go to a meeting of the best friends club by myself. It’s gonna be Bellamy and Miller, broing out, and then just _me_.”

 

“And Clarke,” Jasper adds.

 

Monty freezes. “What?”

 

“Well, since I can’t go,” Jasper says, calm, as though this isn’t a _big freaking deal_ , “there’s room.”

 

“Jasper! What the hell?!”

 

Jasper throws him a look. “Wait. What’s wrong with Clarke coming? We love Clarke.”

 

“Yes, but—” Oh, god, Monty’s head is already swimming. “If Clarke comes, she’s going to share a tent with Bellamy.”

 

Jasper blinks at him. “Yeah, that’s probably true. But whatever, you like Miller, right?”

 

Yeah, Monty likes Miller. Monty likes Miller so much, his stomach dips every time Miller’s name pops up on his phone. Monty likes Miller so much, he’s spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about what it would be like to grab Miller by the jaw and press him against the wall and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

 

Of course, Monty has shared exactly zero of these thoughts with Jasper, because liking someone in your friend group is awkward enough without Mr. “I’m Incapable of Subtlety” Jordan knowing about it.

 

Jasper grins. “You look weird. What, gonna miss me that much?”

 

“Yeah,” Monty manages. “That’s it exactly.”

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing: Monty is not suave. He knows this. He’s embraced this. He has other endearing qualities, like his brain and his hair and his ability to make really strong mixed drinks that taste like juice.

 

When it comes to relationships, he’s got only one move: become good enough friends with the person until he’s so inextricably woven into their life that he no longer feels nervous around them and they just kind of...fall in love with him.

 

It’s not a terrible move. It worked with Harper, back in college. It’s just that it takes a really long time. And he’s not there with Miller yet. Like he and Miller haven’t hung out solo that many times, and Monty barely remembers any of them because he still quasi-whites out whenever Miller’s around.

 

So he can’t even use this golden opportunity of a weekend to finally put his face on Miller’s face. He needs a much firmer foundation or Miller’s just going to laugh at him, and that’s not something he sees himself recovering from anytime soon. Which means he’s going to have to make it through this weekend sleeping next to Miller—oh god—while also convincingly pretending not to want to jump Miller’s bones, which would be so easy to do because _Miller will be right there_.

 

Fuck.

 

By the time Bellamy swings by to pick him up the next morning, Monty’s reached a state of semi-peace with the situation. He pretends not to be in love with Miller every damn day; he can keep that up for 48 hours.

 

But then Miller climbs out of the car wearing sunglasses and a remarkably tight running shirt, and grins at him, and Monty’s stomach somersaults.

 

“Hey,” says Miller, “need help with your stuff?” He grabs Monty’s backpack before he can even answer, and _fuck_ , this is going to be a struggle.

 

When Monty climbs into the backseat, he’s slightly mollified by the fact that Clarke looks just about as miserable as he feels.

 

“Excited for all the camping?” Monty asks, throwing up his thumbs. Clarke glowers at him.

 

“Yes,” she monotones. “So excited. We’re going to have a great time.”

 

“We _are_ going to have a great time,” Bellamy says, from the front seat. “Hey, Monty.”

 

“Hey.” Monty sniffs. “What’s that smell?”

 

“Oh,” says Clarke, somewhat murderously, “that would be the fishing equipment.”

 

Monty looks at her in horror. “No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _No.”_

 

“Give it a chance,” Bellamy grumbles, as Miller slides back into the front seat.

 

“You brought real food though, right?” Monty asks. “This isn’t one of those ‘we can only eat what we kill with our bare hands’ kind of things, is it? Because I did _not_ sign up for that.”

 

“Fuck no,” says Miller. “We’re making s’mores.”

 

Monty sinks into his seat. “Thank god.”

 

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Miller says, all casual, like that’s not the kind of thing that makes Monty’s whole spine tingle.

 

This was such a mistake.

 

* * *

 

The campsite, it turns out, is pretty nice: nestled far enough back into the woods to feel secluded, but with enough space to keep the car parked nearby. Monty appreciates this; it gives the illusion that escape is possible.

 

Clarke immediately grabs the folding chairs, sets them up around the soon-to-be campfire, and sits down.

 

“Comfy over there?” Bellamy asks, pulling equipment out from the trunk.

 

“This was the deal!” Clarke shouts back. “I’ll fish with you, but that’s the only manual labor I’m doing!”

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but he looks fond. “You’re going to _like_ fishing, Clarke. It’s relaxing!”

 

Clarke just sticks out her tongue.

 

"What happened to a ‘guy’s weekend,’ man?” Miller asks, appearing at Monty’s side.

 

Bellamy shrugs. “Her level of reluctance to be outside is about on par with what I’d expect from Jasper, honestly.”

 

“I think he just didn’t want to be away from her for a _whole two days_ ,” Miller whispers next to Monty’s ear, and Monty bites his lip to keep from grinning.

 

“Do you guys need help?” he asks. “With the, uh…” He gestures, feebly. “Tents?”

 

Miller quickly shakes his head. “We’ve got it. Go sit with Clarke.”

 

“But see, I’d much rather do this than go fishing,” Monty says. “I really do not want to go fishing. Please don’t make me go fishing.”

 

Miller laughs, which is already a rare thing, and then claps his hand along Monty’s shoulder. (Monty could swear he lingers for a hair longer than he should.)

 

“I won’t,” Miller says. “Go sit. We’ll get things ready.”

 

“Okay.” Monty smiles.

 

When he sits down next to Clarke, she wordlessly hands him a beer from the cooler at her side.

 

“Seriously?” he asks, even as he takes it. “It’s not even noon.”

 

“We’re on _vacation_ , Monty,” says Clarke, and Monty clinks his bottle with hers—he really can’t argue with that.

 

By the time Miller and Bellamy are done setting up the tents, Monty’s feeling much more relaxed. It’s getting hot, but it’s nice in the shade, and he likes the way the leaves of the trees rustle comfortingly in the wind. He doesn’t even think much about why the two tents are so far apart from each other, on opposite sides of their little clearing. Bellamy and Miller know what they’re doing; it’s probably for a good, nature-related reason.

 

“Hey,” Bellamy says, coming up behind Clarke’s chair and resting his hand on her shoulder. “Fishing?”

 

Clarke burrows her head against his hand, letting out an exaggerated groan. “You’re lucky I love you.”

 

Bellamy grins. “I know.”

 

“Have fun, guys,” Miller says, settling into the chair next to Monty. “Don’t fall into the river again.”

 

Bellamy frowns. “That happened once.”

 

“Yeah, but it was a whole production. I had to save your ass.”

 

“It was like two feet of water, I would have been fine. You didn’t have to jump in after me.”

 

Miller throws Monty a look. “I had to save his ass.”

 

Monty laughs.

 

It isn’t until Clarke and Bellamy are walking away that it really sinks in: Miller’s not going with them. Miller’s staying here, which means it’s going to be _just them_ , sitting there in the wilderness. Alone.

 

Which would be fine, except that all the other times he’s hung out with Miller solo, they’ve had things to do: video games to play, or a movie to watch, or _something_. It hasn’t just been...them.

 

“You didn’t want to fish?” Monty asks, tentatively. Miller shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.

 

“Let them have their alone time,” he says.

 

The silence stretches, punctuated by the occasional bleat of a faraway bird.

 

“So,” Monty says, swallowing, “uh, what does camping entail?”

 

Miller turns to look at him.

 

“I mean,” Monty continues, “like eventually we will sleep in tents, I get that part. And eat s’mores. But before that? What do we do?”

 

“You don’t really spend a lot of time outside, do you?” Miller asks.

 

“I spend lots of time in the greenhouse. Does that count?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“But there are plants there.”

 

“Nice try.” Miller shrugs. “I think not having much to do is one of the benefits of camping. Gives you a chance to unplug.”

 

“You’re speaking gibberish,” Monty teases, and Miller actually smiles in response.

 

“Usually I just read,” he says.

 

“Oh,” says Monty, “right. That makes sense. I brought a book too, if you want to…”

 

Miller looks at him for a moment, considering. He runs his tongue across his lip, and Monty’s gut twists.

 

“I was thinking we could play cards,” Miller suggests, sounding almost hesitant. “Or something. If you want to.”

 

Monty grins, relieved. “Cards sounds great. Fair warning, though: I’m like, really good.”

 

“Of course you are,” Miller says, warm, and it’s a good thing there’s beer, because that gives Monty something to blame when his ears turn pink.

 

* * *

 

By the time Bellamy and Clarke get back, the sun is low in the sky. Hours must have passed, but it’s barely felt like any time at all, sitting knee-to-knee with Miller (who, it turns out, isn’t so bad at cards himself).

 

“Woah,” says Miller, looking up at Clarke. “What happened to you?”

 

Clarke is grinning ear to ear. It’s almost frightening.

 

“Fishing is _awesome_ you guys,” she says. Behind her, Bellamy beams, hoisting up their catch for all to see.

 

Monty gapes at her. “ _Seriously_? You’re going to the dark side? We were united on this.”

 

“It’s somehow both really calming and really exciting all at once,” Clarke explains, sinking down into the chair next to Monty.

 

“You just like it cause you get to kill things, don’t you?” Miller asks.

 

Clarke shrugs. “Well that’s a big part of it, yeah.”

 

“Hey,” Bellamy calls, “want to learn how to cook them, too?”

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose. “Pass. I told you: no more manual labor.”

 

“But you liked fishing.”

 

“So? Just because I like to kill them doesn’t mean I want to gut them. Plus, that wasn’t in our contract.”

 

Bellamy laughs. “Fair enough. Miller?”

 

“Yeah,” Miller says, scooping the cards he’d spread out across his knees back into a pile and moving to stand.

 

“Hey,” Monty gripes, “no fair. I was totally about to beat you.”

 

“You can beat me again later,” Miller promises, handing him the cards. His fingers brush up against Monty’s in the process and god, Monty’s in so deep.

 

Bellamy and Miller gut and cook fish for a while—which again, Monty _did not sign up for_ —while Clarke and Monty get rather drunk. He doesn’t really intend to, but there’s not a whole lot to do out here but drink. Plus Clarke’s laughing beside him as the sky turns pink, and every once in awhile Miller looks up and smiles at him across the clearing, and Monty’s just really _happy_.

 

They eat the fish off of tin plates, and it’s genuinely pretty good. Clarke takes full credit for having killed it, while Bellamy argues that he should get credit for having cooked it, and Miller keeps putting extra servings of crackers and corn on Monty’s plate when he’s not looking. They drink, and talk, and Bellamy tells them about going on camping trips as a kid, about how Octavia cried the first time he took her fishing.

 

Then before Monty even realizes it, the sun has set and the sky has transformed into something unrecognizable: a cluttered web of the brightest, most beautiful stars he’s ever seen.

 

“Wow!” he exclaims, once he notices, standing up so fast his head spins. (Man, he’s had a lot of beers.) He sways a little on his feet, blinking up wondrously at the sky, and absently feels a hand grip his arm.

 

“Woah,” says Miller. “Steady there.”

 

“This is amazing!” Monty exclaims, chin tilted so far up he feels like he might topple backwards. “Bellamy, why didn’t you lead with this? I would have happily come camping for this alone!”

 

“Good to know for next time,” Bellamy laughs.

 

Monty twists his head to try to get a better look at the cluster of stars he thinks might be Cassiopea—it’s honestly hard to tell; things are a bit blurry—and stumbles a little. The hand on his wrist tightens, then tugs, and Monty finds himself guided towards Miller’s chair.

 

“Here,” Miller says, resting his hand softly on Monty’s waist and pulling him down. “Don’t fall over.”

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monty registers that he is _sitting on Miller’s knee_ and that this is absolutely something he should be freaking out about. But he can’t bring himself to react appropriately what with the stars, and the fire, and the warmth spreading through his core. Miller’s arm is still looped around Monty’s back, his grip soft but solid on Monty’s forearm, and Monty could honestly stay here forever.

 

So, he doesn’t move. And miraculously, Miller doesn’t ask him to.

 

They just keep talking under the stars, teasing Bellamy about his intolerance to cold and plotting what to text Jasper to let him know what he’s missing, and all the while Monty sits perched on Miller’s knee so that he can feel the heat from his body, feel the vibrations of Miller’s laugh in his bones. Whenever Monty gets a little too animated and starts to slip off, Miller’s hand appears on his thigh, steadying him, nudging him back in place.

 

Monty has _just_ enough self-control not to sink back the rest of the way into Miller’s lap, to rest his head against Miller’s neck and close his eyes to the warmth of it. It’s tempting as hell, but Monty’s still within the bounds of “drunk friends being affectionate,” and he’s not going to embarrass himself. Not when he wants this so badly.

 

Eventually, Clarke nods off on Bellamy’s shoulder, and they decide to call it a night. The tents are all set up, so all Monty has to do is follow Miller across the clearing and crawl into their little enclave of sleeping bags and pillows. As he’d originally feared, the tent is _small_ and their sleeping bags are spread out right next to each other, but Monty’s so sleepy he finds it hard to care.

 

“I should take off my clothes,” Monty warbles, head heavy from the alcohol. He just barely registers Miller go rigid beside him.

 

“Uh—”

 

“I brought pajamas,” Monty continues, gesturing towards where he imagines his backpack might be, “but I don’t want to hunt for them.”

 

“Oh,” Miller breathes. “Yeah. Don’t bother. Sleep in your clothes.”

 

Monty frowns. “Even pants?”

 

“Even pants.”

 

“Fine,” Monty grumbles, stuffing himself into his sleeping bag. “But I hate sleeping in pants.”

 

“Noted,” Miller says, and there’s some odd quality to his voice that Monty’s too tired to try to place. He squirms down further into the pillowy cocoon—ugh, _pants_ —and curls to his side, facing Miller. He reaches out before he can tell himself not to and lays his hand on Miller’s arm.

 

Miller flinches.

 

“Sorry,” Monty mumbles. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

 

“For what?”

 

Monty shrugs; his eyes are already drooping. “This was really fun. You’re really fun. I’m glad you’re here.”

 

He hears more than sees Miller settle back against his pillow. He almost doesn’t think Miller’s even going to answer him, and then, softly:

 

“I’m glad you’re here, too.”

 

Monty smiles into the blackness. “We should do this more often.”

 

“Go camping?”

 

“Hang out. You and me.”

 

“Yeah,” Miller says, a near-whisper. “We should.”

 

* * *

 

Monty wakes the next morning with a dull headache, curled up around something warm and solid. He groans, shifting a little deeper into his blanket cocoon.

 

Then his blankets shift back, and he remembers: they’re not blankets, they’re sleeping bags. And the thing his head is resting against isn’t a pillow, it’s Miller’s shoulder.

 

Suddenly very much awake, Monty starts to wriggle back—oh god, did he try to jump Miller in his sleep? Is he that pathetic? But something stops him, locks him in place, and he realizes it’s Miller’s arm looped over his waist. When Monty opens his eyes, his heart nearly gives out; Miller’s face is mere inches away looking downright ethereal, his eyes closed peacefully in sleep.

 

For a moment, Monty lets himself stare. His eyes trace Miller’s face, from the softness of his cheeks, to the frown lines that cross his forehead, to those wide, perfect lips. He’s never been this close before.

 

And then without warning Miller sighs and tugs Monty in closer, so that Monty’s nose is pressed up against his neck. Monty can’t help it—he’s in shock, and it’s literally _right there_ —and so he leans just a hair forward and lets his lips brush Miller’s skin.

 

Miller groans, deep and slow, and it takes every last reserve of Monty’s self-control not to bite down at his pulse-point to hear that noise again.

 

_Maday_ , Monty thinks, frantic. _He’s going to think it’s weird if you start sucking on his neck. That’s not normal. Get out while you still can._

 

He squirms back. This takes a surprising amount of effort—Miller’s arms are pretty tight around him—and, to Monty’s horror, Miller blinks awake at the motion. For a moment, Miller just looks at him, eyes still lidded with sleep. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, and Monty’s entire body floods with heat.

 

Then Miller seems to realize exactly where he is and what he’s doing. His eyes widen and he jerks back, which only half-works because Monty’s lying on top of his arm.

 

“Ow,” Monty mutters, as Miller’s wrist clonks with his head in his effort to wrestle himself back.

 

“Shit, sorry,” says Miller.

 

“It’s fine,” Monty says, reaching up to scratch his head and trying to pretend he doesn’t miss it, being all tangled up in Miller’s arms.

 

“I just— _shit_.” Miller scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

Monty blinks. “Huh?”

 

“That, uh, happens when I sleep,” Miller says, determinedly not looking at Monty. “I...you know.”

 

“Like to get close?” Monty suggests.

 

Miller’s cheeks are flushed. “Yeah.”

 

“It’s fine,” Monty says, and he’s proud of how even his voice is coming out. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind, and besides, you were asleep. You couldn’t help it.”

 

“Yeah,” Miller says, quiet. A muscle ticks in the corner of his jaw. He turns to look at Monty, strangely serious, and for one paralyzing moment Monty’s breath catches in anticipation.

 

But then Miller just sighs. “Hey, can you scoot over so I can get out?”

 

“Oh,” Monty says. “Yeah, sure.”

 

Miller crawls past him, out of the tent, and Monty wishes he could pinpoint what went wrong.

 

* * *

 

The morning is weird.

 

Or, more specifically, Miller is weird. He’s jumpy, and oddly quiet, and stays a minimum of two feet away from Monty at all times. After breakfast—oatmeal with brown sugar, cooked over the fire: unexpectedly delicious—Miller asks Bellamy if he wants to go hiking.

 

“Sure,” Bellamy shrugs. “Clarke?” He stops himself, grinning. “Wait, nevermind. No manual labor, right?”

 

Clarke grins back. “You’re learning."

 

“Monty?” Bellamy asks. Monty glances at Miller, but he’s concentrating on the hiking map he has spread across his knees. He doesn’t look up.

 

"I’ll stay with Clarke,” Monty decides.

 

“Yes!” Clarke exclaims, leaning over to give him a high-five. “Team No Manual Labor strikes again!”

 

“How can you be ‘striking again’ when you’re literally not doing anything?” Miller quips.

 

“Our lack of action is our action, Miller.”

 

“Enjoy being sweaty while we nap in the sunshine,” Monty adds. Miller still doesn’t look up, but Monty’s pretty sure he smiles.

 

Once they leave, it’s just Monty and Clarke splayed out on a blanket in the shade with an assortment of books and bags of potato chips spread between them. Clarke has apparently had the forethought to fill two tumblers with wine, one of which was clearly intended for Bellamy. But she offers it to Monty with no guilt (“he abandoned me, so whatever, drink his wine”) and he takes it happily. He’s able to let go of some of the stress of seeing Miller’s face that morning—so close, so frantic—drifting in and out of sleep as the sun creeps across the sky, listening to the pages of his book flutter in the wind.

 

He might not be sold on camping in its entirety, but this? This, he could get used to.

 

He’s half-asleep in a pocket of afternoon sun when something nudges his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see Miller, crouching down beside him. It’s hard to see his face, backlit the way it is by the sun, but Monty thinks he’s smiling. (Or maybe Monty’s still dreaming just a little bit.)

 

“You’re back,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “How many miles did you hike?”

 

“Seven. How many hours did you sleep?”

 

“Unfortunately, not seven.”

 

The corner of Miller’s mouth tilts up. “Is that a bad thing?”

 

“Sleep is good for you. Everyone knows that.”

 

Monty stretches out his limbs, still leaden with sleep, arches his back off the ground. For a second, he thinks he sees Miller’s eyes track the movement.

 

“Yeah, well—” Miller coughs. “So is food. Come on.”

 

Miller stands and then sticks his hand in front of Monty’s face. Monty just stares at it for a moment before registering that Miller’s offering to help him up, but at least he recovers pretty quickly.

 

“Awesome,” he says, grabbing Miller’s hand. “What’s for dinner?”

 

“Bellamy’s making mac and cheese.”

 

“He can do that out here? Impressive.”

 

“Don’t be so impressed. He could do that yesterday, too, and he still made us eat fish.”

 

“Good point.”

 

Miller lets go of his hand the instant Monty’s on his feet, but that’s to be expected. And he seems better than he did this morning, less frazzled. Less like he he knows that Monty is always about three seconds away from biting his neck.

 

Bellamy makes mac and cheese (and also hands everyone their own individual apple “for health”) and Clarke refills hers and Monty’s wine tumblers and by the time the sun has set Monty’s full and happy, sitting on the ground leaning back against Bellamy’s shins and seriously coming around to this whole camping thing.

 

And then Bellamy (finally) mentions the s’mores, and Monty’s so gleeful he nearly trips over Miller’s feet to follow Bellamy to his car for the supplies.

 

“Don’t hurt yourself for sugar!” Miller calls after him.

 

“I make no promises!” Monty shouts back.

 

As they draw away from the campfire, Monty nudges Bellamy with his elbow. “Hey, thanks for inviting me to this. This is fun.”

 

Bellamy laughs, nudges Monty back. “Of course. Sorry Jasper couldn’t make it.”

 

“I’ll tell him you said that,” says Monty, cheery. “Although this way, you get to cuddle with Clarke and not Miller, which I’m assuming you prefer.”

 

“I don’t know,” says Bellamy, laughing as he unlocks the trunk to his car. “I’ve never cuddled with Miller, so I can’t make the comparison.”

 

“I thought you guys usually share a tent when you go camping.”

 

“We do.”

 

Monty blinks.

 

“Wait. Miller doesn’t, like, cuddle you when you sleep?”

 

It’s dark, but the dim light from the car perfectly illuminates the supremely unimpressed look on Bellamy’s face.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s just—” Monty’s stumbling for the words. “He said that normally when he sleeps next to someone, he…”

 

_“Cuddles?”_

 

“Well, that’s not the word he used.”

 

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, labored sigh. Monty can practically see him counting to ten in his head.

 

“Jesus christ,” Bellamy mutters, mostly to himself. Then he straightens and looks Monty in the eye. “Monty. Miller doesn’t just go around spooning people in his sleep.”

 

“He doesn’t?” Monty asks, weakly. Of course, now that he’s hearing the words out loud, it does sound a little ridiculous.

 

Bellamy just looks at him, pointed. “No, he doesn’t.”

 

“Huh.” Monty’s mouth is dry. “So, that, um. Huh.”

 

Bellamy nods. And then, when Monty still can’t manage to string words together, Bellamy walks past him, back to the campfire, patting Monty on the shoulder as he goes.

 

“Okay,” says Monty, to no one in particular. His heart is in his throat. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Monty kind of manages to keep his chill throughout the rest of the bonfire. He seats himself on the ground between Clarke’s knees so she can play with his hair (always weirdly comforting) and proceeds to eat like ten s’mores, which combined with the wine is _way_ too much sugar. But at least it helps take the edge off of the shrill refrain of _oh my god oh my god_ echoing through his head.

 

He spends maybe a bit too much time just kind of gazing at Miller across the fire, at the way the glow of the fire touches his face.

 

_Oh my god_. _This might actually happen._

 

When Clarke announces she wants to go to sleep, bending over to kiss the top of Monty’s head and nudge him off her legs, Monty steels himself. He’s ready for this. He can do this.

 

He follows Miller and his flashlight back to their tent in quiet concentration. Probably too quiet, because Miller stops after unzipping the flap, turns back to him.

 

"You okay?” he asks.

 

“Great!” Monty chirps. It comes out as something of a screech.

 

Miller doesn’t seem super convinced, but he crawls into the tent anyways, and Monty follows him.

 

The first thing he does after zipping the tent closed behind him is wriggle out of his jeans. Which might be a tad forward, given what he’s planning on doing here, but—fuck it, he’s not sleeping in pants again.

 

Miller grunts. “What are you—”

 

“Relax,” says Monty, “I’m wearing underwear.” Miller makes a weird little choked sound at this. “You may be able to sleep in pants, but I can’t do it. I refuse to do it. You can’t make me.”

 

“Fine, fine.”

 

Monty throws his jeans aside and slides into his sleeping bag. Miller’s already in his, and Monty takes a deep breath, refusing to let himself think about the eight million ways this could go wrong.

 

He squishes himself up against Miller’s side.

 

He can’t see anything—it’s way too dark—but he feels Miller tense against him, hears the sharp intake of breath.

“Monty?”

 

“It’s cold,” Monty says. Which it actually kind of is; thank god the weather has decided to support his pathetic attempt at seduction. Nature’s been doing him a solid this weekend.

 

“I—”

 

“What? If we’re just going to end up like this in the morning, might as well start now, right?”

 

This line sounded a lot better when he was rehearsing it in his head. But now it’s out there, so he should probably just shut the hell up and see whether it lands.

 

For a second, nothing happens. Miller is completely, unnervingly still.

 

But then he sighs, unknots just a little. Monty almost jumps when Miller’s arm curves around his waist—it’s so dark, he couldn’t see it coming to prepare himself for it—but, emboldened by the contact, he immediately wiggles closer until his nose bumps up against Miller’s chest.

 

_Success_.

 

“See?” Monty mumbles. “Warmer.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Miller’s voice is quiet, almost strained. But he settles into it, rests his chin against the top of Monty’s head, and it’s so nice here, cocooned in Miller’s big arms. He could fall asleep like this easily, lulled by the rhythm of Miller’s chest rising and falling with his every breath.

 

He’s tempted to do it, just close his eyes and drift on off. He could hold off until tomorrow, and then if his attempt at seduction goes south, at least he’ll have the memory of the one night he spent using Miller as his own personal pillow.

 

But honestly, if this does go south, that memory will probably break his spirit more than offer him any kind of comfort, so—if he’s going to do this, he should just do it now.

 

He frees one hand from the tangle of sleeping bag and slowly, hesitantly, reaches out towards what he _hopes_ is Miller’s face.

 

“Ow,” says Miller, mild. “That’s my eye.”

 

“Whoops, sorry.” Monty shifts his fingers to the right to his intended destination, sliding his palm along the scruff of Miller’s cheek.

 

Miller stiffens.

 

“Hey,” says Monty, going for bright, attempting to mask how nervous he feels. “So. I was thinking. Can I kiss you?”

 

Miller barks what might be a laugh, sharp and incredulous. His whole chest shakes with it.

 

"Can I?” Monty repeats. His hand, still on Miller’s cheek, might be shaking just a little. “I mean, it’s obviously okay if you don’t want me to, just say the word. I just—”

 

“Are you serious?” Miller interrupts. Monty is honestly kind of glad it’s so dark; he wouldn’t be able to see Miller’s face if he pulled back anyway, so he has a good excuse to keep his head firmly pressed against Miller’s shoulder.

 

“Yeah. I’d like to.”

 

Miller is quiet for a moment. Then: “Why?”

 

Monty actually laughs. “You’ve seen yourself, right?” But knowing that’s not going to be a satisfactory answer, he tilts his neck up, bumps his nose against Miller’s chin.

 

“Because I like you,” he says. “Have for a while.” And even though his heart is hammering out of control, it feels pretty good to finally say that.

 

There’s this period—probably only a few seconds, but it feels way longer—of complete silence. But then Miller shifts and something brushes up against his nose, and Monty realizes: it’s Miller’s lips.

 

"Shit,” Miller whispers, his hand now padding its way up Monty’s shoulder. “It’s too dark. Where the fuck is your mouth?”

 

Monty’s stomach does a little swoop of joy. He guides Miller’s cheek with his palm, closer and closer and then, _there_ —lips on lips, warm and gentle and way, way better than he’d ever imagined it could be. And this is something Monty’s spent a considerable amount of time imagining.

 

Miller pulls away first, just a hair; his scruff still scrapes at Monty’s skin.

 

“That okay?” he asks.

 

"Dude, I’m the one who asked to kiss you.”

 

“Yeah, but—” Miller breaks off, huffs a laugh. “Sorry, my brain is having trouble processing this.”

 

“Yours too?” Monty asks, gleeful.

 

“You really want to kiss me?” Miller asks. He sounds almost hesitant, which is, of course, absurd.

 

“Of course,” says Monty. Then a thought occurs to him. “Wait, I—you want to kiss me too, right? This isn’t just me?”

 

Instead of answering, Miller just leans back in and kisses him again—rougher this time, needier. He pulls Monty closer, palm splayed along his back, and holy shit this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Monty can’t believe this is actually happening.

 

“Camping!” he laughs, as Miller’s mouth slides down his jaw. “Who knew!”

 

Miller nips at his neck, gentle. “Shut up.”

 

“Shutting up,” Monty agrees. His mouth has better things to do than talk, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Monty wakes up the next morning with Miller’s stubble scraping the back of his neck, Miller’s arms wrapped snug around him. Birds are chirping, the sun is bright through the thin fabric of the tent, and Monty is tremendously, overwhelmingly happy.

 

He shifts back, wriggling closer until Miller’s nose bumps up against his skin.

 

“Morning,” Miller whispers.

 

“Morning,” says Monty, grinning as wide as his mouth will possibly let him; it’s not like Miller can see from this angle, anyway. “How was the sleep?”

 

“Good.” Miller’s voice is low, still crackly from sleep, and it probably shouldn’t be enough to make Monty shiver, but—well, whatever, he’s pathetic, it’s fine.

 

“How was the…” Monty presses his hips back. “Before sleep?”

 

This doesn’t have quite the suggestive effect he was going for, given that there’s still layers of fluffy sleeping bags between them, but Miller laughs anyways.

 

“Monty.”

 

And wow, Monty’s never going to be used to hearing his name on Miller’s lips like that: soft, almost delicate.

 

Monty beams. “We should really go camping more often.” He starts to twist, turning to face Miller, but Miller’s arm quickly tightens, locks him in place.

 

“Monty,” Miller repeats. There’s an sudden serious quality to his voice now that stops Monty in his tracks.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you—” He swallows. “Do you want this to be just a camping thing?”

 

“No!” Monty blurts, fast. He would be embarrassed, but he’s in this deep enough that he might as well lay all his cards on the table. A little softer, he continues: “No. Unless...that’s what you want?”

 

Miller presses a kiss to the base of Monty’s neck. “No. That’s not what I want.”

 

Relief floods Monty’s veins, bright and dizzying.

 

“Okay,” he laughs. “Okay, good. What, err, do you want?”

 

“You,” Miller says, simple, without a beat of hesitation.

 

This is, hands down, the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to him, so it’s a little embarrassing that the only thing Monty’s capable of in response is a delighted snort. It’s just—he’s so damn happy.

 

He twists again, and this time Miller loosens his grip enough to let him. And if waking up in Miller’s arms was a lot to handle, the sight of him in the morning light is something else entirely. Miller is actually smiling—soft, fond—and Monty would eat his own hand to be able to keep waking up to that smile.

 

“Will you go on a date with me?” Monty asks.

 

Miller’s smile widens. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

“Excellent.” Monty isn’t even trying to hide his grin anymore; what’s the point. “Let’s do that. In the meantime, want to keep making out in this tent?”

 

“I think Bellamy has activities planned for our last morning of camping.”

 

“I bet my activities are more fun,” says Monty, pressing his lips to Miller’s throat.

 

Miller groans. “Fuck, stop. In like ten minutes, he’s going to be knocking on the door talking about birdwatching or some shit.”

 

“We don’t have a door,” Monty reminds him. “This is a tent.” Before Miller can protest, Monty kisses him on the lips, firm. “Oh, come on. I was freaking out so bad about sharing a tent with you because I thought you’d catch on to how badly I wanted to kiss you. And now it turns out I _can_ kiss you, and you’re saying you’d rather go birdwatching?”

 

“I didn’t say I’d _rather_ go birdwatching. I said that Bellamy—oh, fuck it.” And then he’s pushing Monty down against the mat, slotting a leg between his, staring down at him with dark eyes.

 

“For the record,” Miller says. “I was trying to be responsible.”

 

“Oh,” Monty laughs, pulling at Miller’s shoulders. “Well, fuck that. C’mere.”

 

Miller grins—sharp, all teeth—and seriously, Monty’s gonna bake so many cookies for Jasper bailing on this trip.

 

(Also maybe some for Bellamy who does, as predicted, try to unzip the tent flap not fifteen minutes later only to immediately pivot and jog away, shouting vague apologies. He probably deserves some cookies, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) on tumblr! I continue to have very strong feelings about minty despite the fact that the show refuses to allow them to be in love, and I'm always excited to find people who want to wail about them with me. :)


End file.
